Would Be He: Lion or Lamb
by KillerInADress
Summary: By the ripe young age of twenty-one, one might think that Harry Potter would have learned that 'normal' just wasn't his thing. (Tomarry/Drarry - Time-Travel!)
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Would Be He: Lion or Lamb?

 **Rating:** T – M

 **Pairing:** Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle. (End pairing is still undecided)

 **Summary:** By the ripe young age of twenty-one, one might think that Harry Potter would have learned that 'normal' just wasn't his thing.

Of course, by that wonderful age of twenty-one, one might also believe that Harry Potter would have learned enough about dark magic to know that touching a mysterious-looking rune written within a ritual circle carved into the stone floor of an abandoned building—that was just recently cleared of dark wizards— is a bad idea.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter, Harry Potter owns me! And, apparently, a pair of leather pants…0.0

 **Written By:** KillerInADress.

* * *

 **First:**

 _Dragonhide Gloves._

* * *

 **Strangely** , it had been an overly normal day.

Or, at least, it had been overly normal for Harry Potter, 21 year-old Auror who was currently trying to breathe in as little as possible to avoid the offending smell of rubbish and old fish.

"Alright, that's everyone, I think," Ron Weasley muttered, looking over the list of captures that another Auror had just helped him fill out. He frowned. "Hey, Dawlish, find any of those potions yet?" He shouted across the room.

John Dawlish stood up, tossing an empty container aside. "Not yet, Weasley. Just a ton of rubbish and a few half-cut newt eyes… They must have been tipped off by someone and hid the stuff before we got here."

"Or had a buddy of theirs apparate them away," Suggested Marcus Totlie, a transfer from France with a wicked eye for crime scenes.

Harry was over on the far side of the large warehouse-turned-dark potions lab, looking for any clues that might lead them to the illegal potions smuggling ring that the auror's had been chasing down for ages. So far, no matter how many places they bust, not one dark potion can be found. It was truly starting to frustrate Harry how slippery these guys seemed to be.

"Can't have. We had Anti-apparation wards up, remember?" Ron said, frowning. "Maybe they drank them all?" He added.

"Some of those potions do pretty nasty things, Ron," Harry called, not bothering to turn and look at his friend. He thought he just saw a bit of strange writing underneath that big trash can. "And anyways, where are all the potion bottles? It doesn't make sense."

"It was just a thought," Ron said, a bit defensively.

"It's thinking like that, that helps narrow things down," Harry muttered, but he was no longer paying any attention to the conversation as he finally managed to move the rubbish bin aside, and found himself faced with a ritual circle of some kind. "Hey, guys, I think I found something!" Harry called out, pulling on a set of Auror standard dragonhide gloves and sinking down to his knees to get a closer look at the strange markings.

Now, by the ripe young age of twenty-one, one might think that Harry Potter would have learned that 'normal' just wasn't his thing.

Of course, by that wonderful age of twenty-one, one might also believe that Harry Potter would have learned enough about dark magic to know that touching a mysterious-looking rune written within a ritual circle carved into the stone floor of an abandoned building—that was just recently cleared of dark wizards—is a bad idea.

Perhaps next time, Harry will listen when his Auror partner yells, "No, DON'T—!" –Dragonhide gloves pulled on or not—but, then again, may be that lesson is just too little too late.

* * *

The pain was one of the worst Harry had ever felt. It was as if his own magical core was screaming out to him in agony, tearing itself apart from the inside out while simultaneously burning hotter, as if it was preparing to cast an unforgivable. Harry couldn't move; couldn't even _breathe_. All around him the air and space felt condensed, as if he had just apparated and was stuck in limbo between destinations **A** and **B**. Everything burned, and when Harry tried to cry out in suffering, not a sound was made.

And then, quite suddenly, Harry felt his body jolt upright and he sucked in a breath so deep, his lungs ached with the very pressure of it.

"That's it, that's it — breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale…" Someone was saying…or shouting. It was surprisingly hard to tell with the horrible pounding in his ears. "Drink this, child. Drink," The same voice encouraged him as something thick and cool was pressed against his lips. Harry tried to open his eyes, but the sting in his head doubled tenfold, so he shut them tightly again and made himself drink from the cold glass of what felt to be a heavy water goblet pressing ever closer to his chapped lips.

And, to Harry's welcoming surprise, it _was_ the refreshing tastelessness of water that slid into his open mouth.

"Good…good…" The voice murmured softly. A female voice, Harry noted, somewhat, vaguely.

The cup was swiftly taken away when Harry inhaled a little water down his airway pipe and started to choke. A small but firm hand began patting his back soothingly, and as soon as the coughing fit cleared enough for the young wizard to drag in sufficient oxygen again, Harry tried to open his eyes once more. It took a great effort, but Harry did finally manage to open his eyes adequately so he could just make out calming blues, whites, and greens with his blurry vision. He must be in hospital, then. Damn.

Closing his eyes with a strangled groan, Harry felt himself being pushed back down upon hard pillows, and tried not to think about how much trouble he was going to be in with Draco later. He could almost hear the blonde's voice in the back of his head, shouting at him with his grey eyes narrowed. _'This is the third time this month, Potter! I swear if you so much as breathe without my O.K so, I'll poison your bloody food myself.'_

"Can you hear me, child? Are you feeling sore anywhere? Does it hurt you to take breaths?" The female was asking him in a rushed sort of tone. Must be a nurse, Harry thought distantly.

Even so, that voice made his brows furrow slightly. Child? He wasn't a bloody child! And where was Draco? He should be in here, ordering his staff around and playing the pretentious Healer that he is, all the while talking very loudly, making a whole lot of noise, and generally trying to show Harry just how upset he is by making a scene… like he always does.

Mind you, it's not that Harry _isn't_ thankful for the peace and quiet—what with his pounding head and all—and the gentle, soothing voice of the woman over that of his angered, (and worried), boyfriend. It's just that it is odd. In the end, the green eyed wizard decided that his boyfriend must simply be busy tending to someone else, and no one had yet to inform him of Harry's return to consciousness.

Harry opened his mouth to reply to the nurse, only instead of words, another groan escaped him, this one much stronger than his last. To be honest, everything felt tender. But Harry was no stranger to pain, and apart from his still throbbing head, the rest of it wasn't bad enough to worry over.

"I—I'm fi—fine." Harry choked out, voice sounding strangely broken. "Just a hea—headache, I think."

There was a scoff towards his right. "Well I hardly think you are _fine,_ as you were on death's very _door_ not but moments ago." The woman sniffed. And her stern indignation over his idea of health was so reminisce of Madam Pomfrey, that the raven-haired man was forced to bite down on a smile.

Pushing his eyes open for a third time, he managed to locate the old nurse, who looked rather like a tall blob without his glasses on. She smiled tightly at him. Not as warm a smile as the old school matron at Hogwarts used to give him, but one that felt just as comforting nonetheless.

Harry tried to return the greeting, only to end up frowning at her instead when he took in the hazy colors of her outfit. She wasn't wearing the pale blue robes of a St. Mungo's nurse, nor did she don the light green of a Healer. Instead, what looked to be a burgundy dress was half covered by a clean, white apron. Her chestnut-colored hair was tied back, hidden in a piece of simple cloth, and in her hand, she held a glass goblet that had a great **H** symbol on it that Harry would've recognized anywhere.

He felt confusion and unease creep up slowly into his chest. Green eyes glanced around the rest of the room, taking in all the small changes to what was unmistakably – even with his impaired vision – the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. But—why was he here? And where was Hannah Abbott? Last Harry had heard, Hannah had taken over for Madam Pomfrey, and Neville couldn't have been happier.

He shifted his look back to the older witch, who placed his glasses on him. "Ah, there you are, I was beginning to fear I may never meet you properly, young man." The lady said softly, still smiling as if she hadn't noticed Harry's troubled gaze. "You are in the infirmary at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and if I may say it, you certainly have kept us worried these last few days. I am, of course, on orders to notify the Headmaster the moment you had awoken… however, I feel that perhaps waiting a few more minutes won't harm anything. No doubt they will have plenty of questions for you, and I doubt they'll give you even a moment of rest. What is your name, child?"

Hearing her confirm that he was, in fact, in Hogwarts was more of a shock than it really should have been, except that inquiry was what hit home the most. He could feel the air on his forehead, which meant that his hair was pushed back and his scar was on full display. _She doesn't know who I am!_ Harry thought with a start.

"My name is Harry Potter." Harry answered slowly, searching her face for any recognition, any sign of wondering gaze towards his lightening-shaped scar. Finding none only strengthened his suspicions. The thought that she really might not have the faintest idea who he was both scared, and delighted Harry in equal measures.

"Well, Harry Potter, do you know how it came to be that Professor Kettleburn nearly had a heart attack when you arrived, tumbling out of the staffroom fireplace in a rush of bright purple flames, covered in a multitude of near-fatal wounds, and clutching a small pouch that no one seems to be able to open?" She half asked, half demanded.

"I—what?" Was Harry's intelligent response. Traveling through a purple flame? There was no such thing. Harry should know. He'd only spent _months_ in that cluttered room, going over folder after folder of floo travel information for a case.

The nurse was looking at him seriously now. "Gave Mr. Kettleburn a right fright, you did. Not an easily startled man, mind you." She said with a tone that bordered on reprimanding. "Now tell me, dear, how did you get past the wards around Hogwarts? Did someone let you in? What kind of floo did you use? I've never heard of purple flames before. Red, yes—yellow, certainly—but purple?"

Suddenly, Harry understood that she had not held back from calling the others because she thought he needed a bit of time to rest and readjust…at least, not entirely. She wanted to get answers out of him, and for whatever reason, she seemed to think Harry would give them to her if they spoke alone.

Frowning, Harry told her candidly, "Nor have I, to be honest. And I've spent more than enough time in the travel department at the Ministry learning about the bloody floo."

"And what would a young boy such as yourself be doing in the Ministry of Magic travel de—"

"Hang on," Harry cut in, frowning ever harder as something occurred to him. "You said, 'on orders to notify the Headmaster', Headmaster who? What's happened to Professor McGonagall?"

Pausing in her inquiry as to what Harry could possibly be doing in the Ministry of Magic, it was the nurse's turn to frown down at him. "Who?" She asked in bewilderment.

"Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, previously known as Gryffindor's Head of House, and professor of Transfiguration…surely she hasn't retired? If she had, I'd have heard news about it before now."

The nurse's brown eyes were wide. She looked as if she had never even heard of McGonagall, but that was impossible.

"And as far as that goes, where is Nurse Hannah Abbott?" Harry added, trying to push himself into an upright position to better see the around the room now that he had his glasses back. "Neville's only just told me she got the job two months ago, so that they could be closer because Neville is here teaching Herbology so much of the time, and—"

"My boy, there is no one working here by those names." The witch said sternly. "Did that trip through the purple fire addle your brain, child? I am the only nurse currently employed here, Herbert Beery is the professor of Herbology, and headmaster—"

"But that's not right!" Harry hadn't meant to shout at her, but the woman just wasn't making any sense.

"And _Headmaster_ Dippet has been the Headmaster of this school since—"

"What?" Harry cut in, that name tugging unpleasantly at something in his memory. "What did you just say?"

"Headmaster Armando Dippet," She repeated, giving Harry a rather impatient look. "He was Headmaster here long before I was offered this job, and I do believe his predecessor was one of the members of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. There hasn't been a Headmistress of Hogwarts in as many years. Longer than you've been alive, young man, so I'd thank you to stop saying such nonsense before I send you away to a Mind Healer."

Pain in his body and head long forgotten, Harry scanned the room hurriedly to find something – anything! – That had the days' date upon it. In the end, he was forced to turn green eyes back to look into searching brown. "What is today?" He asked, fear gripping him tightly. _It's not possible. It can't be._ He thought to himself.

"December the 20th. A mere five days before Christmas." She answered, seemingly taken aback.

Harry attempted to take in a calming breath. "No, I mean—what year is it?"

If anything, the nurse looked all the more puzzled about this question. "It's nineteen-forty-two, soon to be nineteen-forty-three. Where have you been that you don't even know the year?"

She went on to mumble about teenagers these days and not even remembering what year it is, but Harry had stopped listening, panic threatening to over come him. _No, it can't be! It's impossible! It's a dream, or—no!_ Harry thought wildly. And it _was_ impossible. Time travel was a very limited process. There was simply no way that Harry could have traveled all the way back to 1942… "That rune!"

"Excuse me?"

"I'd never seen it before, that's why I…but I was wearing dragonhide gloves! It shouldn't have been able to—"

"My dear boy, what are you going on about? What rune?"

With a start, Harry realized he must have been thinking to himself out loud. _Oops_. "I'm sorry, Miss…" Harry trailed off, now fully aware of the fact that he'd never learned her name.

"Madam Aiana Jeen," She supplied briskly.

"Madam Jeen," Harry went on. "Is Albus Dumbledore the current Transfiguration Professor here by any chance?"

And although Harry already knew the answer, (having seen more than enough of Dumbledore's memories in his sixth year), the dark haired wizard still found himself holding his breath as Madam Jeen blinked at him a few times before saying, rather cautiously, "Yes, he is. Do you— what are you doing?!" Madam Jeen screeched in alarm the moment Harry threw back his covers and attempted to stand. He needed to see Dumbledore, but he'd quite forgotten about how much pain his body was in and trying to leave the bed had brought it all back to him, making it easy for the nurse to grab him by the arms and move him back onto the hard mattress. "Well I've never—" She started to say indignantly, but Harry cut her off.

"Madam Jeen, I must speak with Albus Dumbledore right away. It's an emergency!"

"Whatever you're thinking, it's hardly grave enough for you to try to leave this bed. And if I'm going to be calling anyone, it will be the Headmaster, who, I see now, I _should_ have called for the moment you were stable."

Resisting the urge to growl at the witch, Harry accepted defeat and said, through clenched teeth, "Call him too, if you must. But I must see Dumbledore… _Please!_ " He added, in case she had Pomfrey's old habit of taking rudeness as a personal insult.

Looking torn, Aiana Jeen looked between her office door and Harry several times before her brown eyes landed and stayed on Harry, narrowing slightly. "You'll stay in this bed while I make the call?" She asked with a suspicious look.

Harry nodded.

"You won't try to leave?"

Again, Harry nodded. "I promise."

She frowned. "And you'll cooperate with any and all of their questions?"

Harry hesitated. "I'll…answer what I can." He finally decided on, not knowing everything there was to time-travel, but remembering enough to know that some things shouldn't be said. Even to a wizard like Albus Dumbledore.

She watched him for another minute or so before acquiescing, however reluctantly, to his appeal. "Then, I will give them both a call." And she turned back towards her office, still shooting Harry looks as she went, as though not entirely satisfied he'd still be there when she returned.

As soon as her door closed, Harry felt the pure panic trying to consume him, but he willed it away for the time being, as there was no proof yet that he was stuck here. Slumping back onto the firm pillows with a rush of air leaving him, Harry tried to distract himself was thoughts of quidditch, and just how much Ron, his auror partner, must hate the mountain of paperwork he was surely stuck with right now.

For a moment, Harry smiled. Except the distraction didn't last long, and sooner than he would have liked, Harry was back to thinking about his current predicament, 1942…was it—no, _could_ it be possible? Hermione had once talked to Harry in great length about her work with time-travel down in the Department of Mysteries, although, as far as Harry knew, the Unspeakable's had never thought to use Runes for time-travel properties… what if those dark wizards had been planning to go back and—

True alarm shot through him so strongly that Harry bolted back upright, regretting the action almost immediately as it made his head and chest ache something horrid, but he ignored the throbbing and focused instead on the thought that had just occurred to him. If it truly was the year 1942, then Tom Riddle was here, right now, alive, in Hogwarts, about to become—

The Matron's office door was thrown open as in walked a man Harry had only ever seen in memories; Armando Dippet, followed closely by Aiana Jeen, and Albus Dumbledore, looking so young with his auburn hair and beard, that Harry almost didn't recognize him.

"Good evening, young man. Aiana, here, has just informed me that you had come to, and wished to speak with me. I do apologize that I could not have gotten here sooner, very busy, you understand." Armando said cheerily, coming right up to stand beside Harry's hospital bed. Even as he smiled kindly down at him, Harry could tell just how hard the man was trying not to bombard the younger man with his inquisitiveness. "So, young one, are you ready to tell us how you've come to find yourself in my school?"

Harry's bright green eyes frantically searched out Dumbledore's piercing blue ones, and he found them behind familiar half-moon spectacles, looking back at him with that little twinkle. Now that he had him here, Harry wasn't sure where to start. Somehow, he doubted saying, 'Hi, you don't know me yet, but I'm from the future where you used to manipulate me for what you thought was, _the greater good_ , while one of your current students' chased me around my whole life, trying to kill me…oh! And he was also a raging psychopathic sociopath, and the greatest dark wizard of all time. Did I mention I watched you die?' would go over all that well.

"Well?" Madam Jeen prompted. "The Headmaster has asked you a question; it's rude not to reply accordingly."

Deliberately taking in a deep breath to control his growing dread, Harry asked, despite already feeling like he knew what the answer was going to be, "Would it be possible to speak with Head—Er—Professor Dumbledore, alone?"

And as he had predicted, both Aiana Jeen and Armando Dippet shot down his request at once. Claiming that, "Anything you can say to Albus, can be said in front of us,"

Dumbledore merely looked thoughtful.

Harry sighed. It wasn't like he hadn't been expecting it. "Then I'll just say it, shall I?" It wasn't really a question. "I'm, erm… I think I may have, uh… Oh, fuck it." Steeling himself, Harry said in a rush, "I traveled back in time; I'm from the future."

Everyone blinked.

"To be fair, it was an accident." Harry added when the silence started to become uncomfortable. _In for a knut_ , _in for a sickle_.

"How far back have you come?" Dumbledore eventually asked, twinkle seemingly vanished from his eyes.

"I'm from the year two-thousand-and-one, and Madam Jeen told me that today was December 20th, nineteen-forty-two, so about…seventy-one years."

Aiana Jeen sucked in a breath when her name was mentioned, but still she did not speak.

The headmaster did, though. "My boy, surely you must be mistaken – hit your head a little too hard coming out of that fireplace, perhaps? Time-Travel is a very restricted branch of magic. Why, even the Ministry has yet to find a way to trek back farther than a few hours at a time. To come back seventy-one years in time is—"

"I'm not sure how it happened, sir. Only that I touched a rune written—"

"That is enough!" Dumbledore said firmly. Cutting off Harry's explanation and looking a little paler than he did before.

"What is the meaning of this, Albus? How are we to understand if this boy isn't allowed to—"

"Armando, my good friend, do you need reminding of the laws and regulations regarding time-travel? It has never been a _good_ thing to know too much about ones future, and if we continue questioning this boy, he may say something that, to him, is simple fact, but to us, it may be revolutionary." Dumbledore turned incisive blue eyes on Harry for a long moment before he looked back at the grey-haired Headmaster. "Anything we ask from this point onwards should be thought through carefully before hand."

Dippet was looking more like the fragile old man he was with every word Dumbledore said, however, he had a resolved sort of finality about him that suggested he still had some fire left in him. Harry briefly wondered if the old wizard had been a Gryffindor, but the thought was gone almost as quickly as it had come.

"Quite right, quite right," Dippet muttered, brows furrowed.

Harry felt like _he_ might need an update on time-travel rules, but was little too busy keeping down another wave of dread to ask. _It's going to be okay,_ He told himself firmly. _Dumbledore will have an idea of how to get you back home_. _Just breathe_.

"Am I allowed to ask him about his symptoms?" Madam Jeen piped up, worrying her bottom lip slightly. "I have never bothered to learn anything about this time travel business, or its policies, and to be quite frank, I don't want any part in this. But he is still in my care, Headmaster, and he may as well be for the next few days if his ribs do not heal soon. Oh, what I wouldn't give for something that fixed bones instantly." She tacked on, looking wistful.

"But there is something like that!" Harry said without thinking, not at all surprised to hear that his ribs were damaged. It had certainly felt like it. "Poss—"

"No, child!" Dippet said quickly, thrusting out a hand to stop Harry before he could finish his sentence. "You do not know the damage you will cause telling us of things which have not yet been invented."

Harry frowned, looking around the hospital wing in an effort to try and remember when that particular healing spell had been made. He could have sworn that Hannah and Draco had once had lengthy (and boring), discussion on it…created in 1958…maybe…

"Oh, but could you just imagine the possibilities of such a healing tool? Mending bones in half the time – or even two-thirds of the time!" Madam Jeen was saying, looking excited at the prospect.

"Aiana, please, control yourself." The Headmaster said tightly. "You should not have even received such information. Who knows what that little slip could have cost the future?"

"Armando is right, Aiana. We need to be cautious of what we ask."

"But, Albus, think of what we could—"

"No, Aiana. We mustn't change anything!"

It was then that Harry caught his reflection in the mirror hanging over the wash bin near Madam Jeen's office. "Blimey!" The young wizard said in surprise as he looked at his own face. He looked to be about fifteen. Or sixteen, more like.

How did that happen? Time travel didn't change ones' age!

"What is it, child? What's wrong? Has your pain returned to you?" Aiana was by his side an in instant, but Harry didn't know what to say to sooth her. It wasn't the aches that bothered him. _What kind of rune did I touch?_

 _Well,_ thought Harry, _at least I now know why they kept calling me, 'child'._

"Fine, just…what do we do now? Should we call auror's? Get me checked into the Department of Mysteries as a personal pin cushion?" Harry asked, and if there was bitterness in his voice, no one commented on it.

"No, that would only make things more difficult, I think." Dumbledore said slowly, thoughtfully.

"Albus?" Headmaster Dippet gave Dumbledore a knowing look.

Dumbledore smiled weakly. "Oh, Armando, you know as well as I what the ministry would do to a boy his age."

Dippet chuckled. "I wish I could say that I don't know what you're referring to, but alas, an old fool must admit defeat." With a heavy sigh, Dippet stroked his short beard for a moment, thinking, before he turned back to Harry. "I suppose we'll just have to keep him here with us until we can find a way to send him home. How old are you, boy? You don't look a day over thirteen."

Harry bristled slightly. Yes, he was a bit shorter and thinner than he should be, but he hardly felt he looked thirteen! Then, green eyes widen as the more important part of that sentence made it through stubborn ears. "You mean there really might be a way to get me back to my time?" Harry wondered, all hope not yet lost.

"Indeed, there might. Your age, please, child?" Dippet repeated patiently

Biting down on the strongest wave of panic yet, Harry tried to remember when Voldemort was born. He would be in his seventh year, now, wouldn't he? Sixth and Seventh years did occasionally have to work together, so, if Harry said he was fifteen, he'd be in his fifth year, and fifth years never had to work with seventh years, and that would mean Harry would never have to seen Tom Riddle outside of meal time and the odd walk by in corridors.

"Er—I am fifteen, sir." Harry said, tacking on the 'sir' as confidently as he could manage when his voice cracked embarrassingly. Merlin, he didn't miss puberty.

"Fifteen?!" Aiana gasp. "You're terribly malnourished. I had thought—only, you were also covered in various injuries and I couldn't be sure…" She trailed off.

Looking back over to the mirror, Harry did suppose he looked a lot like he did in December his sixth year. Just recently returned from his Aunt and Uncle's house two months ago, barely starting to fill out again thanks to Hogwarts wonderful food and plenty of flying out on the pitch.

He couldn't be sure that time travel this far into the past _wouldn't_ have turned him back into a sixteen year old, but, _merlin_ , what was happening to him?

"Fifteen, hmm?" Headmaster Dippet was also looking over Harry with a concerned look, but in the end, he shook his head and gave Harry an encouraging smile. "Then that would put you in your fifth year here at Hogwarts. Are you familiar with Hogwarts?—don't answer that. Never you mind, Madam Jeen is more than adequate to update you on the comings and goings of Hogwarts, and it has never hurt anyone to be reintroduced to the rules, if I do say so myself." He winked at Harry, and turned pale eyes upon Dumbledore, who seemed to be more interested in watching a sparrow outside of one of the windows instead of discussing Harry's less-than-satisfactory upbringing.

"Dumbledore, you will, of course, assist me in finding a way home for our young man?"

"Certainly, Headmaster." Dumbledore said pleasantly, still gazing out the window even though the bird had flown off.

"Uhm, Professor, would it help if I tried to draw out the rune symbol I touched? I know I'm not supposed to give away anything from the future, but it truly is my only lead to how I got here."

Dumbledore finally turned away from the window to regard Harry with blue eyes while Dippet frowned down as his feet, brows knitted deeply in thought. Aiana was looking between the three wizards with baited breath.

"Well, Albus?" Dippet asked eventually lifting his head to address his transfiguration teacher.

"Celtain Cauress is the best runes expert I've ever met," Dumbledore said. "But we mustn't tell him why we need it studied—the less people who know, the better—and should it be far too advanced…"

"Indeed. Indeed… And you'll work with him, I presume?"

Dumbledore bowed his head.

"So…is that a yes?" Harry asked, not entirely sure what just transpired between the two older men.

Dippet laughed. "Yes, my boy, that is, indeed, a yes. Please, draw out the symbol you remember and Dumbledore or I will come and retrieve it later, when you've had some time to rest."

"Thank you, Headmaster." Aiana said with a grateful smile. "Blessed am I, to work under someone who understands the art of healing."

Dippet nodded. "How much longer until he is well enough to be sorted?"

"Another two days at least, Headmaster." She replied.

Again, Dippet nodded, and then offered Harry a grin. "Good, good. Well then, young one, you rest up, listen to Madam Jeen, and when you are better, we'll get you all settled in."

Suddenly, Dippet became solemn. "The wizarding world is fighting a war – not sure if you knew that—and I'm sorry to say that you won't be the first student we've had to add to the school year a bit later than the rest. We should count it a grace, though, as it means you won't stand out. Of course, most everyone else was sorted before the holidays, but as soon as you're well, we'll get you all sorted into one of the four houses we have here at Hogwarts, and then you can just focus on your studies while Dumbledore and I look for a reversal for your problem. Who knows, maybe you'll even find yourself to be ahead of your class when you get back to where you belong, after all this extra work." The headmaster added, looking cheerful.

Harry just didn't have the heart, or even the O.K so to tell the old man that he was actually a 21 year-old auror who'd never actually finished his Hogwarts education, and would probably be more help on the research end, than having to relearn the difference between Stellit-mite, and Stellit-tight.

But of course, they didn't want to know anything more about him than the knowledge that he was from the future, and Harry was sure that if he tried to explain how his body had somehow changed back to when he was sixteen, or why he was claiming to be fifteen to escape having to share a classroom with the crazy Dark-Lord-In-Training who lived just down the bloody stairway, well…

In any case, the Library was open until curfew for fifth years, and he could easily do his own research without fearing he'll let something slip with every word he says.

That was something, at least.

So, instead, Harry nodded.

The two professors took their leave shortly after, discussing possible allies to speak with about their mission, while Madam Jeen tended to Harry; checking him over with diagnostic charms and making sure he was comfortable enough, before she too, retired to her office.

It wasn't until Harry found himself alone in a hospital bed in the year of 1942 that he finally allowed the dread and fear to overwhelm him. How was he going to get home? _Was_ there even a home left for him to go? Just how much might he have changed by coming here?

Thinking about his time only brought along thoughts of his loved ones there, which he pushed out of his head with difficulty. Thinking of Ron and Hermione and Draco wasn't going to make it any easier while he was stuck here in the past.

And Harry refused to cry in a hospital bed!

Then, the worst thought Harry could have ever had popped into his head. Fred. _Fred wasn't dead yet—or Tonks, or Lupin—they weren't even born yet! – If I stopped Tom Riddle from becoming Voldemort – if I befriended him; showed him that muggles weren't bad – or…_

Harry cut off his train of thought. No. He already didn't know what his presence here had done to the future, and besides, he, more than anyone, already knows just how evil Voldemort is. Even at the age of 17. It isn't worth the risk to attempt something so dangerous with such a narrow chance of success.

No, Harry would keep his head down, do what research he could, and try to do as little damage as possible to the future until they found a way to get him back to his right time.

Guilt overpowered the fear in Harry's veins, and Harry's determination not to cry in the infirmary was put to the test.

"I'm sorry, everyone. I'm so sorry." Harry whispered to the empty room as the faces of those, who lost their lives during the war, seemed to taunt him for his selfishness. "I'm just so, so sorry."

And if a small tear fell from his chin and splashed onto his tightly clasped hands, well…no one was there to witness it.

* * *

Notes: **Boy did that end on such a darker note than I originally intended… Ah, well. Here you go, chapter one! I hope you guys don't find the story too interesting, as I must regretfully say that the likelihood of my updating this in the next…ever, is pretty slim. It's not that I'm not excited to try out this kind of story, it's just that it is bound to be much harder to write than my usual stuff, and I've never tried Tom/Harry before now, so…there's that.**

 **Anyways, the first chapter is more to see how you guys take to the story than it is my agreeing to continue, so, let me know where you stand on this, and I'll see if it's even worth it to finish the second chapter. (Which, just fyi, Harry gets sorted in and I'm still undecided about Tom's reaction to him…just so you know).**

 **Yes, well, thanks for reading; your feedback is always appreciated, and a free muffin to anyone who gives me comments. Thanks everyone! –** ** _KIAD_** **.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Second:**

 _Christmas Eve_

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** Owning something as amazing as Harry Potter would have required a lot of creativity and originality, and honestly, that is just a lot more effort than I'm willing to put into my life right now.

 **Written By:** KillerInADress

* * *

 **It** took two days before Madam Jeen would allow Harry to get out of his hospital bed, and another one after that before she'd let him do it alone. In fact, by the time she'd let Harry get up, dress himself, use the restroom, and return safely to his bed, (all without her help), it was already Christmas Eve.

Harry found that he liked Madam Jeen well enough, but he longed greatly for Madam Pomfrey's etiquette when it came to using the restroom, and showering.

"Nothing I haven't seen before, young man." Madam Jeen would say as she stripped Harry of his standard blue hospital pajamas, and ushered him into the tub.

He also found that he missed modern medicine—almost as much as he missed having a bath without a supervisor—as so many of the potions and spells from his time didn't seem to exist yet, limiting Harry to a slow healing process and quite a handful of pain relievers in the meantime.

Harry had just finished his breakfast, and was preparing himself to be poked and prodded to Madam Jeen's content, (having spent the first two days fighting her, before learning that her threat to use a wooden paddle on him was not an idle one), when in through the large infirmary doors walked Professor Dumbledore, auburn beard tied with a small string, and wearing a set of outrageously yellow and red robes. Harry smiled.

"Good morning, Professor. Your robes look mighty festive today." The dark haired boy said in greeting, and got a cheery chuckle in response.

"I am glad you like them. They were a gift from Horace Slughorn – the Potions Professor, I'm sure you'll be meeting him soon – he gave them to me last year as a birthday present simply because they, 'match your house spirit, Albus' – I'm Gryffindor's head of house, you know – and I felt that they would certainly be celebratory enough for the holidays."

Harry blinked in surprise. He'd quite forgotten Slughorn worked at Hogwarts in the 40's. "Well, they really are brilliant, sir."

"Very kind of you, my boy, very kind. But I'm afraid I did come here with more in mind than spreading merriment." Dumbledore said, pulling up a visitors chair with a wave of his hand. "How are you feeling? Has Madam Jeen been tending to those ribs of yours?"

"I'm feeling great, actually. Madam Jeen even said I could go down to the feast tonight if my headache doesn't return before then."

"I'm happy to hear it. Now, I've shown the drawing you gave me to Professor Celtain Cauress, and the most he has been able to decipher, is that it originates from the Asphyian runic alphabet, I am sorry to say we do not know much more than that."

"It's alright, Professor. I know these things take time." Harry said reassuringly. _Getting back home before Christmas would have been too much to hope for anyway,_ Harry silently added to himself.

Dumbledore watched him thoughtfully for a moment. "Indeed. Well, in the meantime, I do think we should go over your background for while you are to be here with us." Harry opened his mouth to argue that he wasn't supposed to talk about the future, but Dumbledore held up a hand to stall him. "Also," Dumbledore went on as soon as Harry pressed his lips back together. "There is the matter of your name…Madam Jeen told me that your name is Harry Potter. Any relation to…"

Dumbledore left the end of that question open, and Harry nodded silently.

"Ah," He said. "Well, I think a small change is in order. Potter is not so unusual a name—nor is Harry—but for safety sake, I feel it would be better to change it slightly, just in case. How does Harvey sound? Or Harold?"

"Hadrian." Harry said before he even had time to think about it, shocking himself with how easy it seemed to come to him. It was like the name had been waiting to tumble from his lips since the moment he had appeared in 1942, and Harry couldn't have stopped it if he tried. "Hadrian Potts."

Dumbledore blinked, taken aback, but quickly recovered himself. "Hadrian Potts it is. And your blood status?"

"Half-blood, sir."

Again, Dumbledore looked at him in surprise for half a moment, before continuing as if nothing was out of the ordinary. "Very well. Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. Potts. I will be your transfiguration teacher for the duration of your stay with us, so if you need anything at all, you know where to find me. " Smiling slightly, Dumbledore settled back into his chair a bit, seemingly at peace with the world.

"Thank you, sir."

Dumbledore nodded. "It is my pleasure, I'm sure." He offered.

He then turned very serious. "Now, about your arrival here; Headmaster Dippet and I feel that it is in your best interest if we claim that you escaped a band of dark wizards by using accidental magic to take you somewhere you felt safe, and found yourself in Hogwarts. With this war, many other young children such as you have been reported to have done something similar; only, they went to relatives and houses away from the danger. Not broken through years of hard-built security wards that have been placed around this castle for many centuries. However, accidental magic is rather unpredictable, so I do not feel anyone will question such a story."

Despite being a former Gryffindor, Dumbledore always had been a little too good at manipulation, Harry thought, his eyebrows burrowed. "I suppose that is as good a tale as any, Professor." Harry said after a moment. It wasn't like he could tell anyone the truth in any case, might as well have a story prepared, should anyone ask.

"Albus, I didn't know you were here."

Dumbledore began to say something else when Madam Jeen exited her office and took notice of her new guest. Dumbledore rose to greet her, whatever he'd been about to say long forgotten. "Aiana, wonderful timing, Hadrian has just been telling me that you think he may be able to make it down to the fest this evening."

Aiana paused, looking at Dumbledore as if he might be mad. Opening her mouth to speak, Harry felt he knew what she would say, and so quickly thrust out a hand in greeting. "Hadrian Potts, Madam, it's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for taking care of me after my accidental magic injured me when I tried to escape the dark wizard's plaguing my village, and found myself all the way out here in your school."

Harry winced at the falsetto his voice had adapted during his story, and the nurse stared at him in bewilderment for a long time before she shook her head slowly. "If this is something to do with your time-travel affair," She said, moving over to him and withdrawing her black wand from one of the pockets on her apron. "Then I don't want to know anymore. Keep me out of it. I only wish to run a few more tests, so hold out your arm."

Lowering her voice to grumble on about time traveling children and their tales, (causing Harry to grin widely, and Dumbledore's eyes to twinkle with thinly veiled mischief), Madam Jeen started a series of diagnostic spells.

When Madam Jeen had finished up her testing and was forced to proclaim Harry 'healthy enough to go to the fest, if you promise to check in with me first thing tomorrow morning, young man', Dumbledore explained to Harry that he'd be back just before dinner and would escort Harry down there, where he would be sorted before sitting down with his new house to enjoy the Christmas Eve fest.

"Sir, couldn't we just hold the sorting here? Must we make it so…public?" Harry asked, not feeling eager to have the eyes of the whole school on him, just like in his own time at Hogwarts.

"We must, I'm afraid." Dumbledore answered gravely. "Traditions are nothing if not important here at Hogwarts. Don't fear, my boy, we will not keep you in the spotlight for longer than absolutely necessary."

Harry nodded.

"Ah, before I forget," Dumbledore pulled free a familiar-looking mokeskin pouch from the folds of his robes. "I do believe this is yours."

Harry reached out to accept the small bag from the older man. A tiny hand-carved **HP** near the top confirmed it to be the same one Hagrid had given Harry for his seventeenth birthday, and the very same pouch that Harry had lost during a raid on his first real mission as an official Auror.

 _How?_

"Yes, it is. Thank you." Harry said, hanging it around his neck to look through later.

"You were clutching it tightly when you arrived, and if I may say it, the enchantments surrounding that mokeskin are some of the best I have ever come across. Not even the combined efforts of Nettleburg, Merrythought, and myself could break through them." Dumbledore told him, looking both impressed and perplexed by the little container.

Harry got the feeling Dumbledore longed to ask him something, but after hesitating just long enough for the raven-haired man to notice, the transfiguration teacher said his farewells and left Harry to a boring afternoon of potions and Madam Jeen's insistent tests.

Harry tried arguing that she'd already said he was healthy, but all that got him was a dark look and a brisk, "Are you a trained medi-wizard? I thought as not. Open."

Which Harry wisely did, gulping down the chalky substance without further complaint.

* * *

When it finally came time for dinner, and Dumbledore arrived to rescue Harry from Madam Jeen's clutches and escort him down to the Great Hall, Harry felt inexplicably nervous. It wasn't like Harry was any stranger to being stared at by the whole school; it was just that this wasn't _his_ school. His time, his sixth year. He'd already been sorted once before, could he be resorted? What if the sorting hat refused to even talk to him because he wasn't from this time…what if it _couldn't_ sort him?

"There is no need to look so petrified. The sorting will be the simplest part of your time here, I'm sure." Dumbledore said, showing Harry the side of him that he rarely ever showed anyone. The side of him that was most… _human_.

"Sir, do you…has the hat ever refused to sort someone?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

"If a hare can jump the stump, then so shall the rabbit," Dumbledore answered cryptically, and this was the side of him Harry hated the most. The side that was all riddles, and vague nonsense.

Entering the Great Hall, Harry was amazed to see just how very few students had stayed for the holidays. In his own time, Harry almost always stayed at Hogwarts, but never before had it seemed to empty.

Dumbledore took him right up to the teachers table, where a stool and the sorting hat had been placed before hand. No whispers followed him as he walked, so Harry assumed that Dippet must have already made a speech explaining about the new student who was to be sorted before dinner.

Instructing Harry to take a seat, Dumbledore gently placed the sorting hat atop his head, and Harry could practically feel his ever-growing tension to see which house Harry would be placed.

Harry held his breath.

"Ah," Said the voice in his ear. "Back again, Harry Potter?"

Beneath the brim of the hat, Harry's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

"Or perhaps I should say you've, 'come before'?"

"you—you know who I am?" Harry wondered in astonishment.

"Certainly, certainly. I can see all things resting in your mind, and though it is still to come for me, for you, I have already sorted. Now I see you are in need of another sorting, and be that, a rare thing, it is hardly unheard of, is it? Tell me, then, Harry Potter; will you choose Gryffindor this time around as well?" The hat asked smartly.

Harry felt dumbfounded. "You mean—you mean I have a choice? You still want to put me in Slytherin?" He had thought it was only Voldemort's piece of soul in him that made the hat consider him for the house of snakes.

"Just because you are in the past does not change the things I have said in my future. You would have done, and still might do well in Slytherin. I make this assessment on which you are, not what you borrowed."

Harry felt his heart leap.

"Perhaps you would do even better there this time, as I have placed young Tom Riddle there just a few years ago; I see a will in you. A want to change what is to come, and should you go to Slytherin, perhaps—"

"No." Harry said sharply inside his own mind. "No, I can't. Slytherin isn't—being in Slytherin won't- I mustn't change time. I can't—" Harry took a deep breath and continued more slowly. "Thank you, but Gryffindor is my home. It's where I belong, and where I never should have left. If you are offering me the choice, then I am asking you to put me where I truly belong."

The hat was silent for far too long, (in Harry's opinion), but when at last it spoke, it said something that Harry had not been expecting, and was woefully unprepared for. "If that is what you wish, then it shall be. But heed this, young one; though our choices make us who we are, some times it is far better to trust ones' self, than the words of others who know not of what is to come and what has already begun."

And with that, Harry was suddenly taken back many years—back to a day when Dumbledore said something similar to Harry about 'ones' choices far more than ones' abilities', when he had been frightened that maybe, just maybe, he truly was becoming like Voldemort.

Thoughts so far away, Harry completely missed the sorting hat shouting out, "GRYFFINDOR!", to the rest of the hall, and it wasn't until Dumbledore had touched his shoulder gently that Harry shook himself free from his ruminations and realized that the hat had already been taken away, and the clapping from the Gryffindor table was already dying out slowly as people seemed to notice Harry was still sitting motionless on the stool.

Harry quickly jumped to his feet, mouthing a silent, 'thank you', back at the sorting hat before taking a seat at the far left table. He wasn't sure the hat could even see, but it made him feel better nonetheless.

As soon as Dippet finished the Christmas Eve speech, allowing them all to enjoy their dinner, Harry was bombarded with introductions and the odd question. Harry greeted and answered all that he could, and when the other students finally started to return to their dinners, Harry looked around the hall in amazement. In many ways, it felt like being home in his own time, but there were little things that reminded Harry just how far from home he really was. Not least of all was the teachers' table, where he could only identify a few of the people currently seated there.

He felt a prickling along his skin and looked over at the Slytherin table's only two occupants. He found himself greeted with the sight of a first year, (who was poking suspiciously at a bit of casserole with his fork), And the dark head of hair that belonged to none other than Tom Riddle, bowed low over a thick book.

From this distance, Harry couldn't be sure, but years of Malfoy-watching had adapted Harry to notice little things, and although Tom Riddle seemed to look exactly as he had when he'd come out of the diary in Harry's second year, something about the hair made him pause. _Was it too long?_

In the end, just _seeing_ him there, innocently reading a book and looking, to all the world, like the dedicated student he was supposed to be gave the green-eyed wizard chills up and down his spine, and Harry shivered involuntarily.

As Harry continued to watch the other teen, trying to decide if it might not be better to just turn himself into the Ministry now, so he wouldn't have to share a dinning hall with the future dark lord, Tom Riddle discreetly flip his book around so it was facing the right way up. Harry's eyes widened. Tom _had_ been looking at Harry.

The raven-haired time-traveler felt deeply unsettled about this revelation, and, not feeling very hungry anymore, Harry pushed his plate away from him slightly and in an effort to resist the urge to get up and walk back to Gryffindor tower, because he was supposed to be new, and knowing where it was without anyone helping him would be suspicious, (and also because he didn't know the password in yet), Harry went back to observing this older Hogwarts.

For the rest of the feast, anytime Harry felt the familiar prickling sensation of eyes on him, he'd always turn back to the Slytherin table, trying to catch the other teen out. But Tom Riddle was never looking at him, so Harry let it go.

* * *

When the feast finally started to wind down, and prefects were rounding up the first years, Harry was so thankful to be getting away from the uncomfortable feeling teenage Voldemort gave him, that Harry paid extra attention to everything the Gryffindor prefect was telling him, feigning interest even though he already knew where the forth floor lead too, and had no trouble with the trick step, having spent so many years jumping it in his own time.

The moment he figured out which bed was his, he barely had it in himself to offer the other students a goodnight before he collapsed on-top of his bed and shut his curtains tightly. He was so tired, he longed to just lie down and sleep, but he needed to see what was inside the pouch before not knowing drove him crazy.

Drawing the small thing out of his shirt and over his head, Harry looked it over fondly. Hagrid was still a student in this time, only a few years younger than Harry. The raven-haired wizard knew he'd need to meet Hagrid again soon. He was just grateful to have someone in this time who, though they did not yet know Harry, Harry knew he could easily get to know again.

Pulling the pouch open, Harry noticed something odd about the way magic seemed to shift around it, almost like the opening of Hermione's magically extended purse had during their hiding in the war. Tipping it over so the contents spilled out onto his bed, Harry gasp.

Out of that small pouch fell a trunk, which looked just big enough to hold all the school things Harry would need; three large packages, two wrapped in bright red and green paper, one in a silvery blue; two wands – _his_ wand, and the Elder wand which Harry hadn't laid eyes on since its return to Dumbledore's tomb; and a small ring with a black stone in the center.

Harry immediately clenched his hands into fists so he wouldn't be tempted to pick it up. The resurrection stone, un-cracked and un-harmed from the time when Dumbledore had destroyed Voldemort's horcrux buried within the innocent-looking piece of jewelry.

Then, Harry noticed a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, and for one wild moment, Harry thought it was the golden snitch Dumbledore had given him, secretly hiding the ring within until that moment when it 'opens at the close'.

But no, Harry was perhaps even more surprised to see a large pile of gold, silver, and bronze resting around the other various items. A feel in the pouch told Harry that there was even more gold sitting at the bottom, as if he'd emptied out his Gringotts vault into this one small, magically enlarged bag.

Head spinning with a million unanswered questions, Harry picked up the gift closest to him, admiring the bright and festive paper for a moment before he looked at the tag, and dropped the gift back onto his covers so fast, one would think it had burn him.

| _To: Tom Riddle._

 ** _Happy Christmas!_** |

It had said. In a handwriting that looked similar to Harry's, but if one looked just closely enough, you could see the hesitation in the **R** , indicating that the person who wrote this was actually left-handed, not right-handed as Harry is.

Frowning down at the offending package, Harry reached for the other two, and looking over the two gift tags, felt his frown deepen.

The blue package had a tag that said:

| _To: Tom Riddle._

 ** _Happy Birthday!_** |

In the same attempt at chicken scratch, while the other tag said:

| _To: Harry Potter._

 ** _Use it well, and have a very, merry Christmas._** |

In what appeared to be a passive attempt at the note Dumbledore had written him in his first year. Again, the **R** 's were all wrong, and something about the **Y** 's made Harry sure that it was written by the same left-handed person. He'd always been good at telling which hand people wrote with, having watched the old muggle school teachers force Dudley to write with his right, as they seemed to believe that it wasn't 'proper' to write with your left.

Harry always suspected it was one of the reasons why Dudley hated written assignments so much.

Setting the other gift addressed to Tom aside, Harry opened the one for him, already guessing what he might find inside. Sure enough, as soon as he opened the wrapping, a silvery, flow-y type cloth fell out and onto the bed, temporarily turning the majority of the bed contents invisible.

His father's cloak.

Harry gently ran his hands over the material, feeling the familiar watery fabric fall in-between his fingers. He had arrived, clutching this pouch, but how—why—what was going on? It was—

Harry picked up the cloak and folded it, putting it on his pillow. He was tired of thinking how impossible it all was. It was getting him nowhere, and frankly, he was just too tired to be worried about the fact that he now, once again, was in complete possession of the deathly hallows.

Tomorrow, he would worry about what would happen should Tom get his hands on these items in this day and age. Tonight, Harry only focused on returning everything back into his pouch. Everything except the trunk, which he crawled out of bed to place at the end of his four-poster, grateful that his fellow roommates all had their own curtains closed. He opened it up, just to confirm that it was, indeed, filled with school books, a hand full of quills and parchment rolls, and, to Harry's amazement, three sets of black school robes, folded and stowed in the top corner.

He also left out the cloak, the two gifts for Tom Riddle, and his own wand. Safe in the knowledge that no one could open this pouch but him, (as Dumbledore had even been forced to admit he'd tried and failed), Harry placed the pouch and two gifts on the bedside table. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do with the gifts for Riddle…should he give them to the boy? Should he open them first, make sure they aren't anything Tom could use as Voldemort later?

Sighing, Harry decided he would as leave that for tomorrow. Crawling back into his new bed, Harry placed his wand and cloak underneath his pillow, and, even with his mind full and heavy, Harry laid down, closed his eyes, and fell asleep almost at once.

* * *

Sunlight streamed in through the crack in the curtains hanging around Harry's four-poster, gently dragging the Man-Turned-Teenager out of his deep slumber, and into that half-real, half-dream like state where Harry could easily convince himself that he was really sleeping in his and Draco's bed back at their small flat, and Draco would be back any minute now, trying to rouse him from the warm blankets by offering a hot cup of coffee, and a few slices of toast.

Then a grumbled shout of, 'Watch it, you numpty! You almost stepped on Vincent!", Shattered Harry's imaginary world into a million pieces.

Frowning at that particular insult, (which he hadn't heard in ages), Harry rolled over, and stuck his hand outside the curtains, searching for his glasses.

Someone handed them to him.

"Alright there, Hadrian? Finally decided to join us, have you?"

Harry put on his glasses, and drew back his curtains to be greeted by the teasing smile of Andrew Williams, Gryffindor's fifth-year prefect, and part-time jokester. Harry returned the smile. Andrew reminded Harry of the Weasley twins, (only with a lot more control over his prankster side), and Harry found that he liked him a lot.

"Yeah, alright." Harry replied brightly.

"Good to hear. You'd best get dressed if you want to come with us to breakfast, though. Millin and Frankston aren't the most patient of blokes." Andrew said, dropping his voice and pointing at two of their dorm mates, who were currently arguing over which one got the better Christmas fudge. "Also, I know you just got here and all, but it looks as if someone's sent you a present. I put it on your trunk." Andrew added, turning away to look in the mirror while he knotted up his red and gold tie.

Harry walked to the foot of his bed, looking at the package in surprise. "Who the bloody…" He trailed off. It was from Dumbledore – the real Dumbledore—Harry could tell by the handwriting. "Erm—thanks. You can go on without me to breakfast, if you like. I have to go visit Madam Jeen for a check-up anyway. Promised her that I'd stop by first thing in them morning."

Andrew turned to him, running a hand through his dark blonde hair. "Oh, really? Well would you like me to go with you? I don't want you getting lost on your first official day here and all—"

"No, it's quite alright, thanks. I think I remember my way back after last nights' tour." Harry said quickly.

Andrew watched him for a moment before nodding. "If you're sure... Just know that if you get lost along the way, you can ask any teacher or prefect, and we'll help you. It's a pretty big castle. Even I still get turned around sometimes."

Andrew chuckled and Harry smiled at him reassuringly. "Thanks for the warning, but I think I can manage. I've always liked a little bit of adventure anyway."

The blonde laughed even harder. "I guess it's a good thing the hat put you in here with us, then. Imagine trying to find adventure in Ravenclaw, or, _Merlin forbid_ , Slytherin. Nah, their lot just likes to do things they've planned out before hand. Totally boring, if you ask me. No real excitement ever happened from out of a book."

Harry was suddenly very thankful he'd picked Gryffindor a second time. Laughing, Harry said, "You know, I had a friend once who lived out of the books she'd read. Completely obsessed with trying to get me and Ron to think about things before we did them. We were lucky to have her, though. Probably would have gotten ourselves killed long before now if she hadn't…made plans, and…"Harry trailed away, no longer feeling very happy with anything.

Hermione had always been his go-to. She knew everything there was—the brightest witch he'd ever met, she was. Without her, how could he ever even hope to find a way back to his right time? He couldn't do the kind of research she always did. It was always Hermione who did the planning, the thinking. Harry was only ever good at the doing. Oh, how he missed his best friend right now.

Andrew turned to look at Hadrian when he suddenly stopped talking, and upon seeing the boy's poignant face, realized that maybe the poor kid had lost those friends in his fight with the dark wizards, and quickly tried to apologize, feeling awkward. "Shite, Hadrian, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—fuck. Do you…do you want to talk about it, or…something?"

Andrew looked extremely uncomfortable with the idea of talking about Harry's _feelings_ , and for a moment, he looked exactly how Ron would have—only with less red hair. Harry tried to smile. "I'm fine." He said, grabbing Dumbledore's gift as a way to distract himself. Inside the brown wrapping lay a set of black school robes, Gryffindor symbol set on the left, and a letter telling him that if he was still with them for the start of term, Dumbledore would gather him the supplies he'd need.

Unsure of whether or not he should tell his Head of House about the trunk from inside Hagrid's pouch, Harry pulled on the robes over the clothes Madam Jeen had given him to wear, and said his goodbyes, heading for the Hospital Wing before the nurse decided to come find him and make sure he hadn't expired without her careful eyes watching over him.

Honestly, that woman was somehow worse about her Patients health than Madam Pomfrey had been. (She wasn't quite as bad as Draco could be, but that might also be because Draco believed in punishing Harry while he was still bedridden and couldn't escape his boyfriends' wrath).

Harry felt fine except for a small pain in his chest when he had to jump or run. The medi-witch had warned him that his ribs weren't completely healed yet, but she had done all she could and apart from a few pain potions and plenty of rest, (which he promised her he'd get), then the remainder of the healing process with up to his body.

Harry had had worse and dealt with it in tougher situations, so he'd thanked her the only way he knew how. By promising to try not to injure himself any further.

And Harry did intend to keep that promise. He was going to keep his head down and be invisible in this time. He wasn't going to draw any attention to himself, and since Voldemort didn't know about him yet, he had no reason to find himself in any danger while he was here.

After all, he wasn't, 'The Chosen One', he was just Hadrian Potts, normal Gryffindor student at Hogwarts. And normal students at Hogwarts didn't almost die every year they attended. So Really, Harry didn't have anything to worry about.

At least, that's what Harry tried to tell himself. But, like every other time in his life when things were just about normal, Harry's gut would get this feeling that Harry had learned not to ignore.

 _If only my gut had had the sense to warn me about that stupid rune._

"Well, everything seems to be in order, Mr. Potter—"

"Potts." Harry corrected.

Madam Jeen glared. "Yes, Mr. _Potts_. Now," She went on stiffly. "How much did you eat at dinner? Remember, you need to eat at least a healthy portion every meal to regain the—"

"I ate almost an entire plateful, Madam." Harry lied. He'd told the same lie over and over to Hermione many years ago, but somehow, he felt even guiltier for telling it now. _I must be getting old._ He grumbled to himself.

The nurse watched him carefully for what felt like ages, before she pursed her lips slightly. "Good. Then I guess you'd best get down to breakfast before all of the fruit is gone. Off you go." And she shooed him out of the infirmary.

Harry left without complaint, but he really wasn't feeling all that hungry, so instead, he went back to the dorm room in Gryffindor Tower, fully intending to go through the trunk at the foot of his bed, and then draft a letter out to Professor Dumbledore, explaining the strange situation.

Only, when he returned to his bed, he caught sight of his bedside table, empty say for the tiny, innocent-looking pouch.

 _Where the bloody hell were the gifts addressed to Tom Riddle?!_ Harry thought, his eyes wide as he quickly snatched up the pouch and felt inside. He couldn't see or feel anything like wrapping paper, and after 'accio' didn't even bring forth the presents, Harry truly started to panic. It was so stupid of him to have left them just sitting out on his table. A house elf must have seen it last night while cleaning, and decided to deliver it to Tom for him.

Throwing himself onto his bed, Harry groaned loudly. Who knew what was in those boxes? It could have been anything! Dangerous dark artifacts. Books on advanced dark magic. Hell, maybe it had even been a set of Vampire fangs for use in a potion to create inferi!

Harry turned over, shoving his face deep into his pillow. He should have looked! He should have just opened the bloody things and checked before leaving them laying about where anyone could have gotten them!

 _Maybe the gifts are poisonous,_ Harry thought then. _Maybe, when he touches one, he'll die. Then he'll never have the chance to kill my parents, or my friends, or—_

It should have made Harry feel better, but in the end, he just felt worse, so stopping his thoughts from continuing down that dark pathway, Harry forced himself up and moved back down to the trunk, intending to actually do what he set out to do in the first place.

Before he had the chance to open the chest, though, a thought struck him. _What if the house elves haven't given Riddle the gifts yet! What if they still have them—or at least one of them!_

It was a long shot, but what did Harry have to lose by going down to the kitchens and asking them?

Turning on his heel, Harry raced down staircase after staircase, passed empty corridors and classrooms, down hallways that he knew so well, he could have walked them in his sleep; down towards the entrance to the kitchens, where—

"No running in the corridors."

That voice stopped Harry dead in his tracks, cold dread pooling into his stomach. There, at the other end of a hallway Harry had just turned down, was none other than Tom Marvolo Riddle, future dark lord and mass-murderer. Tom approached him, looking politely confused by Harry's reaction. But Harry knew better than to believe the innocent act. "I said no running, but it doesn't mean you aren't allowed to walk at a more reasonable pace, Mr. …Hadrian Potts, wasn't it? Nice to finally make your acquaintance." He held out a hand.

Harry didn't take it.

"Ah, yes, how terribly rude of me for not having introduced myself to you. Tom Riddle, Slytherin Fifth-year Prefect at your service." He gave a mock bow, dark eyes overcastted momentarily with a look of disgust, before it was quickly wiped away.

The time-traveler thought he might have a heart-attack then and there. "Fif—fifth yea—year?" He choked out.

Tom smiled at him, clearly mistaking his panic for nervousness. "Yes, the same year as you, I'm told. So of course, if you need any help finding a class or anything, you may always ask."

Harry felt trapped. He needed to get away – From Tom—from Hogwarts—from bloody 1942!—so he said, as politely as he could when felt like he might be sick at any moment, "Ex—excuse me." And tried to make a run for it, but Tom stepped into his path.

"Hold on, I wanted to ask you about—"

"Tom! There you are! We thought something might've happened to you." A loud voice called as someone came around the corner and the distraction was all Harry needed.

When Tom turned to address the newcomer, Harry, (hidden perfectly by Tom's tall figure thanks to his malnourished 16-year-old body), quickly pulled out his fathers' invisibility cloak and covered himself, thankful that he'd brought it along with him due to pure habit.

"Marcella. Wonderful timing, come and greet our new student. Hadrian, this is Mar—" Turning back around to face the spot Harry had previously stood, visible, Tom paused mid-sentence. From where Harry stood by the wall, invisible, he could just make out the surprise and annoyance slip from his mask and out onto the taller teens' face, before he smoothed it away and turned back to the Ravenclaw. "Ah, it would seem our newest student had somewhere else he needed to be."

"That Potts fellow? You met him? Andrew said he is quite the friendly type. Helped a second-year to get her foot out of that trick step last night and everything." Marcella said, looking almost thoughtful for a moment before she shook herself.

Tom frowned almost undetectably except for the twitch of his eyebrows. "Odd. He seemed rather shy to me," He replied with a forced lightness.

"Really? How strange. Anyways, we should go. We are late for the prefects meeting." Tom nodded, and together, they started walking away, Harry not daring to breathe until they were both well out of eyesight.

After another few minutes of silence, Harry finally moved away from the wall and took off the cloak, storing in inside a pocket in his robes. Kitchens and elves now the farthest thing from Harry's mind, Harry wondered almost automatically up to the owlery—a favorite thinking spot of his when he was still in school in his own time.

Tom Riddle was a fifth year. Not a seventh—not even a sixth!—a fifth-year student. _Prefect_ , even. Harry laughed bitterly. Of course Riddle is a prefect. Why wouldn't he be? He's the 'model student'.

Feeling frustrated at himself and at Voldemort-To-Be, Harry sat down on the dirty stone floor, petting an owl nearest him, who gave him a soft, " _Woot_ " In gratitude. Harry smiled. She wasn't as pretty as Hedwig, but she held her own grace about her with her speckled feathers.

Green eyes scanned the other owls, sleeping peacefully in their little dens. He thought of home. Of the owlery in his time and how these owls didn't look too much different from those he so often visited. Thinking back to his encounter with the tall dark-haired teen, dark brows knitted. What _had Riddle been about to ask me?_ Harry pondered, now that he'd calmed down enough from the meeting to really pay attention to the details. _He'd wanted to ask me about…something…but what could he possibly want to know? I'm nothing to him in this time._

Then, a thought occurred to him. _Could he have possibly wanted to ask about the dark wizards who 'attacked' me? Was he hoping to learn a spell they'd used on me or something?_ Even in his own head it sounded foolish, but what other explanation could there be? To Tom Riddle, Hadrian Potts was just another Gryffindor student walking the great halls of Hogwarts. He shouldn't _be asking_ _Harry anything_!

It wasn't until around dinner time that Harry finally convinced himself to leave the comfortable atmosphere of the owls and journey back into the fray of wizards and witches alike. After all, he'd been hiding out all day and if he didn't at least make an appearance at dinner, someone might start to worry.

Besides, he wasn't going to be able to just run and hide when the term started back up. He'd just have to deal with having classes with Tom Riddle…it wasn't like it would be every class, and at least he didn't have to share a dorm with the psychopath.

Harry sighed. How crazy was Tom at fifteen? Had he even killed anyone yet? Harry didn't think so. His first kill was… _bloody, buggering,_ _ **fuck!**_ Harry about turned right back around and retreated to the owls again when he remember that next year, 19-fucking-43, was the year Tom Riddle opened the damned Chamber of Secrets.

As Harry forced himself to enter the Great Hall, he kept his eyes straight on the Gryffindor table, refusing to even _glance_ at the Slytherin table. _What a blooming load of bollocks that damn rune has gotten me into. Could have ended up anywhere, but with my luck, I arrive just in time to relive the first opening that fucking chamber!_

Sitting down next to a first year he's never formally met, the amount curse words he'd just said thought of made him smile, shaking his head in amusement. He has definitely been spending way too much time around Ron lately. Hermione would have hit him upside the head with the daily profit if she'd been inside his head to hear the type of language he'd picked up from her husband when they were on the job.

Hermione's voice in the back of his head, telling him off for letting Ron influence that kind of behavior out of him only caused his smile to widen into a full on grin, and Harry suddenly found his appetite return to him. He could almost imagine his two best friends were sitting there now, Ron stuffing his face while Hermione scolded him for his poor table manners; could almost picture Draco sitting across the hall, making rude faces while Harry ate his potatoes, pretending he couldn't see them.

He could almost believe that Seamus and Dean would be walking in through those double doors at any moment, a new scheme already planned out as they try to recruit volunteers.

"You seem to be in high spirits. Has Hogwarts famous 'Christmas cheer' been getting to you?"

And just like that, Harry's happy memory broke apart like a piece of frozen glass, and the raven-haired man looked around him, seeing only strangers and people who should be much older than they are.

He didn't let out a sad, disappointed sigh, but it was a close call. "Yeah. Christmas is wonderful here." Harry said, turning to address Andrew Williams with a fake cheeriness, hoping he looked more excited and less miserable.

The blonde seemed to buy it, though, because he went on about his first Christmas here, about how big the trees had been and the wonderful play professor Beery had put on for them. Harry nodded, and smiled, and tried to seem interested, especially when his other two dorm mates got into the story, retelling the cheesy dialogue word for word and even acting out the more dramatic bits. And for a moment, Harry actually got into it, pretending to plead with Donnahov Frankston not to leave him when the other boy threatened to run away and throw himself off a tower because the man of his dreams didn't love him as much as a bullfrog.

But through the laughter, Harry felt a prickling, and looked over at the Slytherin table before remembering that he _wasn't_ going to look at the Slytherin table, and the moment he met the dark, curious eyes of Tom Riddle, Harry felt his good mood vanish, and all those troubling thoughts came back to him in a flood. He glared, before remembering that Tom Riddle was not harmless, childish Draco Malfoy, and dropped his gaze to the table. He'd eaten more than enough, he figured.

"Hey, I think I'm going to head back to the common room." Harry said, standing up and offering the others a smile.

"Hold up, I'll come with," Said Andrew

"Me too. Haven't even started on Slughorn's essay but, who knows, maybe tonight is the night I actually do it." Said Carter Millin, standing up as well.

Well, if you guys are going, I guess I better. Otherwise it's just me and the two freshies." Sighed Donnahov Frankston, shooting the two first years that had also stayed behind for the holidays a distrustful look.

"I told you never to call them that." Andrew snapped, giving Frankston a light shove. "And anyways, they are a lot more scared of you than you are of them."

Millin snorted. "Not likely." He said, amused.

Harry looked between the three students with a frown. "What's wrong with first years?" He asked, puzzled.

"Nothings wrong with them," Frankston muttered. "I just don't like kids, is all. They make me nervous."

He just couldn't help it, he laughed. "What? Why?"

"Because they are devious! You never know what one of those little buggers is planning!"

Harry and Millin laughed loudly, making their way to the double doors while Frankston looked between them sulkily. Andrew's hand was covering his mouth, as if he, too, was trying hard not to laugh. "Wouldn't find it so funny if one of them snuck a dungbomb into _your_ bed at night." Frankston muttered darkly.

Harry startled. "You guys have dungbombs here?"

Andrew gave him a funny look. "Of course we do. Down at Zonko's joke shop…but I guess you haven't had the chance to visit Zonko's yet." He added thoughtfully. "You'll see, though. They've got the best stuff in the world!"

Harry felt the annoying tingle as they exited the hall, but he didn't turn to look this time. It was becoming increasingly irritating, feeling eyes upon him. But Harry needed to control himself. This wasn't the same foolish rivalry he'd had with Malfoy when they were younger. Tom Riddle was dangerous, and Harry couldn't go around starting fights with him. If Riddle thought him a threat, he wouldn't hesitate to do him in. Not like Draco would have.

 _And anyways, I'm supposed to be keeping my head down,_ Harry reminded himself. _No fighting. Just normal student Hadrian Potts. If Riddle wants to watch me during mealtimes then fine. I don't give a damn._

Except that he did. Harry had never been very good at hiding his emotions, and if this didn't stop soon, he may do something reckless and stupid, like—

"Hey, are you still in there?" Harry blinked and found two fingers snapping repeatedly in front of his face. He jerked back. "Ah, there you are. Thought we'd lost you there, mate." Millin smiled at him and Harry offered him a meek apologetic look.

"Sorry, just thinking."

"Well don't think too hard. We wouldn't want you to damage that tiny brain of yours." Said Andrew, laughing. Harry gave him a mock punch in the arm, which only made him laugh harder. Harry grinned smugly.

"Still twice the size of yours." He retaliated.

Andrew stuttered for a moment while Frankston and Millin looked on in shocked. And then, all four of them broke out into laughter.

Harry hadn't realized just how much he missed being surrounded by Gryffindor's again until that very moment. But even so, he'd give it all up if only to have his grouchy, whiny, snake of a boyfriend back in his arms.

* * *

Tom Riddle stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of sweet-smelling mist, and fresh pair of pajamas on. He walked over to his bed, contemplating the mystery that is the new student. Honestly, it wasn't as if was all that much of mystery, but how he had acted during dinner was…puzzling. Still, all Tom wanted was an answer to his question, and then he could—

Tom paused, gazing down to see a package sitting atop his bed wrapped in offending red and green paper. Tom's brows knitted in confusion. He had opened all of his presents that morning, and everyone who ever sends him anything was a part of that small mountain of useless items and boring books that Tom knew he'd never again touch.

Approaching the innocent-looking gift carefully, Tom drew his wand and cast every revealing spell and curse detector charm he could think of. When nothing seemed amiss, Tom unwrapped the present using his wand in case he missed something, so he wouldn't be directly touching it.

Resting inside a plain white box sat a thick tome titled: "Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms – A Guild to Magical Theory by Belard Gervoski."

Interest peeked, Tom still didn't entirely trust the book not to be a trick, so he charmed it to hang in mid-air while he looked for a note of some kind explaining who had send him the gift. Finding nothing more than a gift tag saying,

| _To: Tom Riddle._

 ** _Happy Christmas!_** |

Tom frowned darkly. He didn't recognize the handwriting, and no self-respecting pureblood would dare say 'Happy Christmas' regardless. Tom glanced back to the book and with a flick of his wand, opened the cover and started to read. Before he knew it, Tom was so engrossed in the book that he hadn't even heard Lestrange enter the room until the other teen asked, "Why not just hold it? Forcing the book to hover in front of you like that must get tiring."

Tom would never admit to anyone that he had jumped, (however imperceptibly), at the others' voice suddenly breaking the silence. No one had sneaked up on Tom in a long time, and rather than dignify the inquiry with a response, Tom snapped the book shut and returned it to the box, which he then charmed to fly into his trunk. He had to admit that the book turned out to be a far more interesting read than any of the other wastes of perfectly good paper Tom had received that year. But without knowing who sent it, Tom wasn't about to take the chance that it was cursed in some way.

 _Perhaps I should add 'A Study of Ancient Runes' to my school time-table next year. They certainly do seem to have interesting theories_. Tom thought to himself, finishing up his bedtime routine. _But first, I need to find out who sent me that gift._

* * *

 _Notes:_ **Well, there you are. Your first look at the great Tom Riddle! And Harry's still a Gryffindor?!** _*GASP!*_

 **Thank you for all the lovely feedback. You've earned this chapter, and all the muffins you could ever want!** – _ **KIAD.**_


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